


What is Right and What is Easy

by avian_TARDIS



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Drarry, F/F, F/M, Gay, Hogwarts, Hogwarts Eighth Year, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-13
Updated: 2020-12-01
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:20:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,243
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26437087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/avian_TARDIS/pseuds/avian_TARDIS
Summary: Eighth Year Drarry Fic, Harry and Draco slowly growing less hostile during their eighth year at HogwartsTW: PTSD, Self-harm, Survivor's guilt, Self-hatredI know I suck at writing summaries
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley, Luna Lovegood/Ginny Weasley, Seamus Finnigan/Dean Thomas
Comments: 3
Kudos: 33





	1. Promises

The start of Harry's eighth year at Hogwarts was uneventful, a fairly odd experience if he was being honest. He couldn't think of a single uneventful start of year since he was 10 years old. But that's what it was; routine. Ordinary.

Of course, the aftermath of the war had far from settled. There were new reports every day, updating the wizarding world on the whereabouts of former death-eaters, debating whether their claims of the Imperius Curse's influence should be taken seriously. Once in a while, the obituaries included an old photograph, a victim of the war whose body had only just been found. Harry tried not to look at those pages, face after smiling face that made him feel responsible, whispering in his dreams.  _ This was your fault. You could've prevented this. _

Someone else may not see such a reality as uneventful, but for Harry Potter, the lack of a burning scar or slithery voice piercing his mind spelled the most ordinary life he'd had in a very, very long time.

Hogwarts was a safe place again. And as the teachers struggled with how to split up curriculum after an entire year gone down the drain, the eighth year students began to adjust to life with shared dormitories; the house dorms had no room for the eighth year students, so instead, Gryffindors, Hufflepuffs, Slytherins, and Ravenclaws alike were holed up in old, forgotten parts of the castle transformed into makeshift rooms.

Ron and Hermione were there too, of course. Even though eighth year had been optional for most students, almost the entirety of their class had returned to make up their final year of schooling. You couldn't have kept Hermione away if you tried, and Molly Weasley would not allow her son to miss out on such a wonderful opportunity - or, so Ron had claimed. His friends had a sneaking suspicion he had really wanted to return to the school of his own accord. The three of them, occasionally accompanied by Neville, had settled into a somewhat familiar routine. 

The first month of the term passed without so much as a stray jinx or argument in the halls, and it seemed that things were beginning to become, well, perfect.

Well, not everything. For one thing, Harry and Ginny had split about three weeks before the start of term. It was a mutual thing, and while Harry still agreed that the break-up was for the best, he still missed the intimacy that their relationship had brought. They were still friends, of course, good friends, but there are some things that friends can't provide quite like a girlfriend or boyfriend can. 

The other not-so-perfect thing came in the form of the uneasy tension between the students; after all, some of their parents had stood by Voldemort's side in the war. Some of those students had joined their parents, shooting curses at people with whom they'd been sharing classes for half their lives. Harry had seen students press themselves against the walls as they passed Slytherins in the hallways, avoiding them as if their betrayal were contagious. He felt as if he shouldn't watch when this happened, as if he didn't have the right. 

No one understood that disdain, that wariness around Voldemort's followers better than Harry, and yet… somehow, he empathized with them. He remembered days when he was not looked at in the halls with reverence and awe, but with something much darker. When taunts and hatred would follow him like an ugly shadow along the corridors. And so as much as he wanted to, he couldn't hate them. Those kids may have been associated with villains, but they were still people. They were still just kids.

So, Harry made silent promises to himself. He would break down his prejudice against Slytherin, he would do his best to help and defend those who needed it, not just those that he felt deserved it. He would try to help them towards redemption.

It was all of this that was buzzing around in Harry's mind as he padded down the hall toward the bathroom. In years previous, he'd be wearing his invisibility cloak, checking and double-checking the Marauder's Map as he snuck out for a late-night adventure. But things had changed. Disregarding the fact that students in the Astronomy Tower dorm had permission to use this restroom at all hours (it was the closest one), the teachers had taken up a tendency to look the other way for older students breaking curfew. Especially the ones who fought in the war, who lost people to the battlefield. Especially the ones who woke up screaming, clutching a pillow in the place of someone who would never come back.

So Harry didn't peek around corners or duck into shadows as he walked steadily along the carpet. He simply walked, and allowed his thoughts to wander. He was finally brought back to reality at the end of the hall, when he noticed a light slicing its way out from under the bathroom door. He opened it quietly, hoping not to disturb whoever was inside. He felt a pang of irritation; after all, there was no real reason he needed to be in the restroom, he was just using it as an excuse to escape the dorms, to be by himself.

He was just thinking that perhaps he ought to hide in a stall and wait for whoever-it-was to leave when he heard a strange noise. He poked his head around the door to see what had made it.

Standing in front of a mirror, head bowed over the sink, stood a tall, slim figure with a shiny head of white-blonde hair, clad in green pajama pants. Scars ran across the length of his back, crisscrossing to make gruesome shapes, rippling every time the boy moved. Harry froze. This was all too similar to the time, two years ago, when he had found Malfoy in almost the exact same position, muttering over a sink without any knowledge of Harry's presence. The last time had ended with Harry almost killing him. He struggled to breathe as he watched Malfoy's body shaking, guilt and memories washing over him painfully. 

He should leave. Now.

But the more he watched, the more he worried. Malfoy was muttering through sobs, rocking back and forth. Every few seconds, his body tensed up and he made a soul-wrenching hissing noise, then began to cry harder.

Harry tried to hear what it was Malfoy was saying.

"... stupid, completely and utterly stupid… bloody… worthless, he was right he was always right… can't do anything… now look at what I've done… anyone's fault I mean I did it to myself… hate it… can't…"

Harry pulled his head back into the corridor and swallowed. He couldn't leave. He had to do something. He and Malfoy weren't on opposite sides of a war anymore, and Harry had promises to keep. He took a deep breath and turned back to the door.

3… 2… 1. He knocked twice, soft and hesitant. After a couple of seconds, he opened the door all the way. 

Malfoy turned his head to look at Harry, but the rest of his body stayed in place, frozen like a statue. Harry could see the faint scar running along his cheek now, a reminder of the last time they'd met like this in a bathroom. He glanced around nervously, unsure of what to do. 

Malfoy spoke, struggling to keep his voice steady, trying to pretend that Harry couldn't clearly see the emotions and tears running across his face.

"What are you doing here, Potter?"

"I just…" Harry considered lying. Saying he just had to use the restroom, nothing more. But lying didn't feel like the right way to go, "I had to get out of the dormitories." He carefully closed the door behind him and took a step forward.

Malfoy turned his face back to the mirror, forcing himself to inhale slowly, to get control of his breathing. He ignored Harry's tentative approach.

As Harry got closer, he could see Malfoy in the mirror, hair falling over his eyes. His eyes traveled down, over his chest, until it reached his forearms. Harry let out a small gasp, stepping forward until he was directly behind Malfoy.

"Is this… what… what are you  _ doing _ ?"

"None of your business," Malfoy growled. 

Harry crossed his arms over his chest, "Try again."

Malfoy scoffed, "You know, I think you should be happy, Potter," He wheeled around to face Harry, fear and desperation hiding beneath his aggression, "You're getting exactly what you've always wanted."

Harry shook his head as drops of blood dripped from Malfoy's fingers onto the tile.

"No," he muttered, grabbing Malfoy's elbow with one hand and pulling his wand from his pocket with the other, "No, no, I never wanted this."

He could see Malfoy's dark mark shifting slightly beneath the blood, dark ink staining down to the very bone. He finally realized what Malfoy was doing.

"You're trying to remove it?"

Malfoy wouldn't meet Harry's gaze. He squeezed his eyes shut, tears streaming down his face. He didn't speak. It didn't matter. Harry had his answer. His mind worked frantically, trying to remember - the spell, the one Snape had used, he had thought that it sounded like a song… Vulner… Vulnera… 

" _ Vulnera Sanentur! _ " Harry held his wand over Malfoy's arm and repeated the spell over and over, hoping he had remembered it right. To his relief, Malfoy's skin spread, stretching over his forearm until it fused itself together, the wound shrinking until all that was left was small scabs, black ink, and a sink full of blood. Malfoy continuously attempted to pull his arm from Harry's grasp, but he refused to let go.

When he was done, and he finally let go of Malfoy's arm, he turned his attention to the blood, waving his wand and muttering  _ Tergeo _ over the sink and floor. It was a moment before he remembered to do it for his clothing, too.

He turned back to find Malfoy sitting against the wall, head leaned back and eyes closed. He moved across the room to sit beside him, not too close but near enough to sense the other boy, breathing heavily beside him. It was uncomfortable, being this close to Malfoy. They had been enemies for so many years, Harry had become accustomed to one simple fact; if they were in the same room without professors around, they would either throw spells or insults at each other until someone else put a stop to it. Sitting with him like this, four feet away in silence as if they had some sort of alliance, was new and slightly unsettling. 

After a few minutes, he turned to Malfoy and said quietly, "How many times?"

"What?"

"I mean, this isn't the first time you've done this, is it? How many times?"

Malfoy turned away, "A few."

Harry was silent again for a few moments. Then, "You have to stop. You can't do this to yourself."

Malfoy chuckled, cold and broken, "Oh no? Try and stop me."

" _ Why? _ " Harry turned his body to fully face Malfoy, "Why the hell would you keep doing this? You know it doesn't work. You're just torturing yourself."

Malfoy's eyes flicked towards Harry, then back away. He muttered, so quiet Harry almost didn't hear.

"Maybe I deserve to be tortured."

"Hey," Harry waited until Malfoy turned to look at him, " _ No one _ deserves to be tortured. Understand? No one."

"Oh, please. After what I've done?"

"So your story doesn't have a happy beginning. That doesn't make you who you are. It's the rest of your story that does that."

… Yes, Harry just stole from Kung Fu Panda. Moving on.

Malfoy scoffed, "Yeah, because refraining from hurting other people this year makes last year go away."

"No. But your past doesn't define you. You have to judge yourself based on who you are now, not who you used to be. I guess… I haven't done a very good job helping you believe that. Especially last year. I'm sorry for that." Harry paused. He hadn't even known his words were true until they left his mouth. Since when did he care about Malfoy's feelings? But he couldn't deny that he meant what he had just said, no matter how much it surprised him.

"Yeah, sure. Whatever you say, Potter."

Malfoy pushed himself up and headed for the door. Harry jumped up and ran in front of him, blocking his path.

Malfoy tried to push past him. Harry refused, pushing back as hard as he could.

"Let me through, Potter."

"No."

"I said. Let. Me. Through."

"And I said no. Look, Malfoy, we both know that I'm not your biggest fan. And you're not mine. But that doesn't mean I want anything to happen to you. I need to know that you won't do this to yourself again."

Something in Malfoy's expression changed. It was subtle; his eyes seemed to soften for a moment. Finally, he said, "Fine. If you're serious… then I promise."

It was nothing, really. Just empty words. But for some reason, Harry believed him. He moved aside and Malfoy left. Harry stood, staring at the door, for what felt like hours, thinking. Eventually, he sighed and made his way slowly back to the dormitories.

Malfoy lay awake in his bed, listening as Harry's footsteps slowly crept past the door toward his bunk. He didn't know why he had believed him. Didn't know why he'd made that promise. Didn't know why he intended to keep it. But that didn't matter. Something had changed, and he finally felt a little glimmer of hope, and maybe a tiny idea that he could eventually find peace.

Though neither of them said it, Harry and Draco both knew that this was a night to be kept strictly between the two of them. As long as they both kept their promises, no one would need to know.


	2. Not Hating

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How do I write chapter summaries, someone help

The next few weeks continued on like normal. Harry, Ron, and Hermoine spent most of that time together, studying in the library, relaxing in the 8th year common room, and spending time on the grounds. Malfoy could almost always be found in a quiet corner alongside Blaise and Pansy Parkinson. Since the beginning of the year, Harry had noticed the lack of Slytherins following Malfoy around like loyal fans. More often than not, Malfoy's group was reduced to three. They were quieter than before, no longer vying for attention or laughs from their peers. Though Malfoy seemed surprisingly more content with the peace and lack of attention, it didn't stop Harry from feeling bad when they walked through the halls with their heads down, avoiding eye contact with the other houses.

  
Something about his encounter with Malfoy had heightened Harry's empathy even further than before. He was even more aware of the shame and neglect that the Slytherins experienced, not only now but before. Every day, more memories flooded his mind, times over the past seven years that Slytherins had been pushed away or hated for no reason other than their emerald green robes. First years who had done nothing were spat on by other first-years who'd never met them. He began to feel more and more guilty. Harry tried to shove these thoughts to the back of his mind, focusing on what he could control.

  
What he could control was ensuring promises would be kept. A week after the night in the bathroom, he ran across Malfoy passing through an empty corridor. He almost walked right past, ignoring him, but stopped himself. He turned and called for Malfoy to stop. He could see the other boy hesitate, considering whether to listen. Eventually, he turned, a careful mask of neutrality drawn over his face. Harry approached him carefully, waiting for Malfoy to leave or stop him. But he didn't. Malfoy's eyes flicked down to Harry's hand, reaching towards him. He took a measured breath before transferring his books to his right arm and pulling up his sleeve.

  
Harry gingerly wrapped his fingers around Malfoy's wrist and brought his forearm closer, carefully inspecting it for any marks which had been absent the week before. It wasn't that he didn't trust Malfoy's ability to keep his promise. It was more to reassure himself than anything else. He felt responsible, in more ways than one, for Malfoy's Dark Mark and what he had been doing to it. Thankfully, the mark was still intact, only scarred by the faint pink marks left over from the wounds which Harry had healed before.

  
Harry wordlessly pulled Malfoy's sleeve back over his arm, nodded, and strode back down the corridor toward his original destination. 

  
He began to do this every time he found himself alone with Malfoy. Short, silent checks to ensure that he was keeping his promise. He worried, at first, that he was upsetting Malfoy, that he would lash out and something bad would happen. But he slowly realized that Malfoy didn't resent them. In fact, he seemed relieved whenever Harry did them. What he didn't know was the reason; that though Malfoy couldn't quite understand why, Harry's determination to check in on him made him feel secure, like someone was watching his back. 

  
It wasn't until the week before Halloween that anything different happened. Harry and Malfoy had passed each other in an otherwise empty bathroom and stopped for one of their checks. Harry chuckled at the ink stains on Malfoy's fingers, smudged from hastily copying notes in one class or another. The old Malfoy, the one from before the war, wouldn't have been caught dead with stained fingers. Now he didn't seem to care. Harry couldn't help but think that it made the other boy seem more genuine, less like a cold caricature, and more like a human being. He moved up to Malfoy's arm, to his dark mark, and ran his fingers over his flesh, checking for marks and bumps that would indicate tampering. He was about to let go when he heard the creak of the door behind him. 

  
He and Malfoy jumped apart, turning to meet the eyes of a scared-looking fourth year in Hufflepuff robes. The fourth-year didn't last long under the gazes of two of the most well-known eighth years in the school, and spun around, fleeing the bathroom as quickly as possible.

  
Malfoy's expression grew dark.

  
"Well, now you've done it, Potter. Couldn't trust me to keep a stupid promise, and now that kid is going to tell the school who knows what."

  
Harry looked incredulous, "What's the problem, Malfoy? Some Hufflepuff saw me looking at your arm. It's hardly a crisis."

  
Malfoy scoffed, "Maybe not for you. _Potter_ , the Golden Gryffindor. They'll probably find a way to praise you for it. But in case you hadn't noticed," his voice dropped to a low hiss, "I'm a Slytherin. I'm the one who tried to kill Dumbledore, and whose parents were in… in You-Know-Who's inner circle. I'm the one that everyone _despises_. So you try and tell me that being found alone with the fucking _Chosen One_ isn't going to affect me. I dare you."

  
Harry stared at his shoes, face beginning to burn as his anger subsided. Of course Malfoy was angry. As much as he wished it wasn't, everything that Malfoy had said was true. 

  
Harry shook his head and sighed. "Maybe he won't say anything."

  
Malfoy let out a cold laugh and brushed past Harry out of the restroom, "Likely story."

  
Harry narrowed his eyes at Malfoy's back. All he was doing was trying to help. Couldn't Malfoy just try to appreciate that?

  
_No,_ he thought, _since when have Malfoy and I appreciated anything about each other?_ Harry wondered when his expectations for Malfoy had gone up that high.

* * *

As it turns out, Harry was wrong. The fourth-year didn't mean to start rumours, but he couldn't resist telling his friends about the Boy Who Lived and the Death Eater jumping apart in an empty restroom. And then, of course, his friends had other people who they simply had to tell. By the time the information had spread to the rest of the school, most people found it laughable - who would believe that ridiculous and obvious lie? But the school knew all the same. 

  
Every time they passed, Malfoy gave Harry a scathing look, silently warning him; _Stay away. Talk to me and you'll regret it._ Harry's guilt in seemingly having failed to keep his promise was outweighed by his resentment over Malfoy's audacity to blame him. It was Malfoy who had been found mutilating his arm. It was Malfoy who had allowed Harry to check on him. Harry was just trying to be a decent person… Was this what he got for it? 

  
It made him think back to Mrs. Figg, to her beloved stray cats who would let you get close enough to feed them, but after they'd eaten they'd turn around and scratch you. She'd always defended them, insisting that it was only because they had been scared and that, if properly loved and taken care of, they could become the sweetest creatures on the planet. Harry was always too busy tending to his throbbing scratch marks to listen to her.

  
Hermoine and Ron of course heard the rumour. They both said, "Of _course_ we don't believe it," and they laughed it off. But Harry caught Hermoine shooting him a curious look more than a few times.

  
_You know you're a terrible liar, Harry,_ her voice echoed in his mind.

  
The only person who didn't seem to have an opinion was Luna Lovegood. The day before Halloween, she and Harry were sitting quietly in the library when she said in a soft voice, "Have you realized most of the school can see Thestrals now? I've been thinking about it. They were quite shocked when they got to the carriages in September."

Harry looked at her and thought for a moment.

  
"I suppose it hadn't occurred to me, no."

  
"Hmm."

  
Harry thought perhaps that was the entirety of the conversation, but she spoke up again after a few beats.

  
"How long d'you suppose Malfoy's been able to see them?"

  
"Malfoy?"

  
"Yes, Malfoy."

  
"Why him?”

  
“Well, he's been through a lot, hasn't he? Voldemort and the Death Eaters were in his house. I'm sure he saw awful things."

  
Harry hesitated.

  
"Is it true? About Malfoy? And you? Some people think it's ridiculous, others believe it, but I'd like to hear the truth from you."

  
Harry gave her a soft smile, "I appreciate that, Luna." That was one of the best things about her; she valued the truth over anything else. It didn't matter what you'd done as long as you were honest with her. Harry couldn't lie to her. And besides, Luna was the most trustworthy person he knew.

  
"I… yes, I was in the restroom with Malfoy. I've been… I've been trying to help him with something. Or, I was. I can't really tell you what, it's not my secret to tell."

  
"I understand. Why do you say 'was' like that?"

  
"He won't talk to me anymore. Thinks it'll make things worse for him and the other Slytherins. He's blaming me for getting seen in the restroom, as if he had nothing to do with it."

  
Luna tilted her head, "He sounds scared to me, Harry."

  
Harry didn't reply, but Luna felt that he had understood what she said. Satisfied, she went back to studying. 

* * *

Fourteen. That's the number of times Harry rewrote the note. In the end, he gave up on complex sentences, and the paper that Draco found tucked under his pillow the next night simply read, _I'm sorry_.

  
When Harry found that same note folded into one of his jumpers in the morning, _What's that meant to change?_ Was scrawled hastily on the backside.

  
_I was wrong. I suppose that's all I needed to say._

  
When Harry and Malfoy's eyes met across the Great Hall, Malfoy gave a small nod and went back to his food. 

  
Though they no longer did checks, the two stopped glaring at each other in the hall. They each thought perhaps they could live out the rest of the year like that, in silence. 

  
That is until Professor Slughorn decided to pair them together in Potions. 

* * *

"Of all the clichés," Malfoy muttered as he set his books on the table next to Harry. The first 30 minutes of the class was spent receiving instructions on the making of the Antidote to Veritaserum. When they turned their attention to making it themselves, Malfoy seemed to have decided that it was his job to complete the assignment and Harry's job to watch.

  
"I actually _can_ brew potions, you know, Malfoy."

  
"Oh, please. The only time you ever got good marks in this class was when you were cheating."

  
"I wasn't _cheating_."

  
"Whatever you say, Potter. Pass me the crushed seashells, would you?"

  
Harry refused, "You've got to let me help with the potion, Malfoy, part of our grade is participation."

  
"You _are_ participating. You're handing me the seashells." Malfoy's hand darted out to snatch the bowl from Harry.

  
“You know that doesn’t count. You’re being ridiculous.”

  
"I've got perfect marks in this class, Potter, you're not ruining that with your bad potion-making skills."

  
Harry huffed and slouched in his chair. After a few minutes, he sat back up.

  
"Come on, Malfoy. You can tell me exactly what to do, I don't care, but I've got to do something."

  
"... fine. You can mince the murtlap tentacle."

  
"Thank you."

  
Harry grabbed a knife and pulled the tray toward him. Right before he pressed the knife down, he felt Malfoy grab his wrist.

  
"They must be _exactly_ a centimeter wide. Make sure they're even."

  
"Yeah, I got it." Harry pulled his wrist from Malfoy's grasp and began carefully slicing. 

  
Once he'd finished with the tentacles, Malfoy had him exsanguinate a snail (disgusting), peel bark from a willow branch, and stir the potion for at least 20 minutes. He felt ridiculous the whole time, like a child who couldn't do anything but follow instructions. But at least he wasn't sitting on his arse or doing the whole thing. He did his best to be grateful for being able to help.

  
At the end of the class period, Professor Slughorn drifted around the room, squeezing droplets of a yellowish liquid into the students' cauldrons. When mixed with the liquid, the potions would change color. Slughorn explained that the closer the potion was to sky blue, the better marks the students received. Most potions turned out more green than blue, with a few purple and some navy here and there. Seamus Finnigan, who had never really lost his innate ability to make things explode, received a groan and a suggestion for tutoring when his spewed bright red smoke into his partner's face.

  
Harry and Malfoy's potion, while a little darker than it was meant to be, was the closest in the class, earning them top marks.

  
"Good job, Malfoy," Harry said quietly as they packed up their books.

  
"Thank you," Malfoy replied, "I suppose… you did a good job too. Not bad, at least."

  
"Thanks… I think."

  
They remained silent while they finished cleaning up. The conversation had been awkward and uncomfortable, but Harry at least hadn't hated it. He couldn't think of another time in either of their lives Harry and Malfoy had complemented one another. Even in Madame Malkins' shop all those years ago, before they knew each other, their short conversation had been rather tense and standoffish. Harry hadn't realized how exhausting it was, hating Malfoy. Painful as their few civil conversations had been, he came out of them feeling better than any other time in the last seven years.

  
He didn't _like_ Malfoy. He just liked not hating him.


	3. Same Kind of Different

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BTW if you guys ever feel like this is going on a weird direction or doesn’t make sense, please tell me, I’d love some feedback

The first Hogsmeade visit of the year occurred later than usual, a couple of days into November.

  
Harry, Ron, and Hermione went first to Honeydukes, then brought their purchases to The Three Broomsticks to warm up with some butterbeer.

  
"Unusually cold today," Hermione said, "Must be below 5°." 

  
"Yeah. Nice and warm in here though," Harry replied.

  
"Did you see Dean and Seamus? I think they assumed it would be warmer," she said, gesturing out the window at the pair, huddled together and shivering. They were moving towards the Three Broomsticks so slowly it was almost comical.

  
"It's colder than 5°," Ron said quietly.

  
"Well, I would say that with the wind…" Hermione trailed off as she turned to look at Ron, "Are you alright?"

  
He didn't answer. He stared at his hands, where he was fiddling was a small can, one of his purchases from Honeydukes. Harry and Hermione glanced at each other. 

  
"It was Fred's idea, you know. Candy in a Can. I heard them talking about it one night. George said it was utterly ridiculous, which is what made it perfect. Guess he sold the formula though. If Honeydukes has it."

  
_Oh._  
Hermione took Ron's hand and laid her head on his shoulder. Harry placed his hand on his back. They didn't say anything, but they didn't need to. 

  
Ron sniffed, "I just miss him, you know? I always insisted that he was an… an annoying nuisance, but now that he's gone…"

  
Hermione squeezed his hand, "I know."

  
Ron nodded. They sat in silence for several minutes, until Dean and Seamus finally made their way through the door, shivering and stomping their frozen feet. Ron managed a weak laugh as the two made their way toward the table. He spared a stronger one at Dean's chattering teeth when he said, "S-s-s-spare a few s-sips of bu-butterbeer? We're fr-r-reezing."

  
"Buy your own, mate," Ron said, heaviness beginning to fade from his voice, "I need every drop I've got."

  
Hermione chuckled, "They've got the fire going, you two can sit by it and I'll order your butterbeer."

  
"You're truly a saint, Hermione," Seamus said as he took Dean's hand and moved toward the fire crackling in the corner.

  
She turned back to Ron, "Be right back, yeah?"

  
"Yeah."

  
Harry watched Ron's hands fidgeting on the table, drawing shapes on the wood and tapping his nails. 

  
This sort of thing happened often. Ron's grief came in short bursts, erupting out of him suddenly and then retreating just as fast. The woman who had spoken in the Great Hall during the first week of classes had said something about how grief fluctuates. Harry hadn't understood what she meant at first, but the more time passed, the more he understood. Sometimes he could push the memories of those he'd lost far back in his mind. The pain would fade to a dull pulse, and he could move through his days. He could even smile, even laugh, even have fun. But sometimes at night, or when he was by himself, the grief would swim up from the depths of his mind, and the pain would begin to feel like piercing knives. The same thing seemed to happen to Ron, although his episodes lasted for a considerably less amount of time. 

  
"Oh, fantastic."

  
Harry looked up from Ron's hands to see what he was talking about now. His eyes met Malfoy's almost instantly, as he, Pansy, and Blaise walked through the door. 

  
"It's fine," Harry said, looking away, "They haven't bothered us all year, have they?"

  
"Sure, but you can't teach an old dog new tricks. They'll start again soon enough. Why else would Malfoy be staring like that?"

  
"Honestly, Ron, I don't think they will. They seem different now. The war changed them just like the rest of us."

  
Ron scoffed, "Yeah, sure. Well, I suppose you've a right to your opinion."

  
"And what opinion is that?" Hermione said lightly as she approached.

  
"Harry thinks that Malfoy and his friends _changed_ , just like the rest of us. I think that's rubbish."

  
"Ah. Well, agree to disagree."

  
"So you agree with him?"

  
"It's a simple fact, Ron. The war affected everyone, no matter what side they were on. And besides, we've seen proof. Have you seen Malfoy and his friends starting any trouble lately?"

  
Ron shook his head, "I think you two are wrong."

  
"Well, like Hermione said, agree to disagree." Harry paused, "Did you hear what that pair of first-years are planning for Guy Fawkes Day?"

  
"Yes, actually I did. I think it'll be a disaster. They're asking for trouble," Hermione said matter-of-factly.

  
"Well, I think it's brilliant," Ron said, imitating Hermione's tone. She smacked his shoulder and rolled her eyes. 

  
"After the things we pulled in _our_ first year, I'd say they'll be perfectly below the bar for trouble," Harry remarked.

  
Ron and Hermione both chuckled and nodded, "Well you've got a point there."

  
”We’ll have to make sure we’re there to see it,” Harry said.

  
Ron voiced his agreement while Hermione simply sighed.

  
A woman approached holding two butterbeers and handed them to Hermione.

  
"Thank you," she said with a smile.

  
Hermione turned back to Dean and Seamus and gestured for them to come over and join them at the table. 

  
Harry found himself looking in Malfoy's direction. He and his friends sat quietly, talking with their heads bowed, bodies closed off from the rest of the room. Before, Harry might've thought that was suspicious. That they were plotting something, that he needed to find out what it was. Now they just looked like they were protecting themselves, doing their best to blend into the background. He sighed, beginning to wonder just how often that might've been true in previous years, when Harry had assumed hostility where maybe there wasn't any.

* * *

Draco watched Dean and Seamus make their way across the restaurant out of the corner of his eye. He was listening vaguely to Pansy and Blaise's conversation about whether Quirrel, Barty Crouch, or Umbridge - they’d somehow decided Carrow didn’t count - had been the most "evil" of their DADA professors. Blaise argued that as Quirrel had literally had _You-Know-Who_ whispering in his ear all year, it had to be him. Pansy held her position that the Dark Lord was not the definition of evil, so in fact, the worst professor had been Umbridge, although she'd never actually been a death eater. Draco scoffed to himself at this claim; Pansy seemed to have forgotten entirely about the way she and many other Slytherins, including Draco, had worshiped their fifth-year professor and the chaos she'd wrought.

  
Looking back, Draco didn't see how he could so passionately support the woman. His father had - likely still did - but the only thing Draco had liked about her was her torment of Gryffindors and their allies. Was that really enough reason? Her cruelty was really the only excuse he needed to follow her blindly?

  
_What an idiot._

  
"Draco. Draco?"

  
Draco looked up to find Pansy staring at him.

  
"What?"

  
"I _said_ Potter's been looking at you for like 2 minutes now. God, pay attention."

  
"Potter?" Draco looked back toward the other table, eyebrows creasing in confusion.

  
Pansy was right. Potter was looking straight at their table, but his eyes stayed fixed in place, glazed over. Draco shook his head and turned back to his friends.

  
"He's not looking at us. He's completely zoned out."

  
Pansy huffed, looking irritated, as if Draco was a child that couldn't manage to grasp whatever it was she was teaching him.

  
"Can't believe he hasn't done anything to us yet," Blaise remarked.

  
"What do you mean?" Draco asked.

  
"I mean, he came after us before, in school, when he didn't have much reason. Now he's got plenty of reasons. Everyone else hates us, he has no reason to keep to himself, really. Same goes for all his arrogant friends."

  
"Mmm," Pansy nodded.

  
"I know it sounds weird…" Draco started, "but I think he feels bad for us."

  
"What makes you say _that_?" Pansy said, bewildered.

  
"You've seen him pass us in the hallways, right? He won't even meet our eyes. Sort of looks ashamed."

  
Pansy snorted, "Alright, well, good. He should be ashamed."

  
Draco made himself chuckle along with the other two, but he couldn't help but think about the way Potter had looked when he caught him in the restroom. The horror, the fear, the _guilt_ in his eyes. The desperation as he healed him, as he pleaded with Draco to _promise_. He saw the cautious worry whenever Potter checked on his mark. He saw him in potions, his determination to help, frustration evident but with a distinct lack of hatred. He remembered the confused looking smile that flickered across his face as he left the dungeons. 

  
Potter wasn't what he'd thought. Not what his friends thought. He had been, once. Draco knew that Potter used to be exactly what they thought. But he'd changed. Draco had been surprised the first time he thought that. Potter wasn't capable of change. But the more he thought about it, the more obvious it became. It was ignorant to think that anybody came out of the war the same as they were when they entered it. He hadn't wanted to believe that he may actually be able to relate to this boy that he had hated so much. But sometime in the last two weeks, he'd given in. Facts were facts. Evidence was evidence. Potter changed. Draco changed. Everyone changed. 

  
Things on the surface seemed so similar, but it was being proved to Draco over and over again that everything had changed. The same kind of different. It scared him. But maybe it also gave him just a little bit of hope.


	4. Secret to Share

Harry and Draco were partnered in potions again later that week. Draco grumbled about being unable to work with his friends as Harry rolled his eyes, but secretly they were pleased. They'd come up with a good system the last time and ended up working rather well together. 

Draco was less rigid with his instructions now, perhaps trusting Harry not to mess up terribly - though he continued to keep an eye on the other boy's actions.

Harry sat next to their cauldron, slowly adding two drops of troll blood to the potion every 45 seconds. He lowered his voice and turned to Malfoy, leaning toward him ever so slightly to ensure that his voice would reach his ears.

"How are you… you know… how are you doing?"

Malfoy turned to him, confusion, wariness, and some hostility battling across his features. 

"How am I… _what_?"

"I just mean… I mean, if you needed anything, or anything was wrong, you could.. I would… oh, forget it."

Harry turned to add more blood to their potion. He could feel Malfoy's gaze piercing his back. When it didn't go away, he shifted to see Malfoy's face.

His eyes were narrowed, head tilted in thought.

"What are you playing at, Potter?"

"Nothing, Malfoy. Forget it."

"No, I want to know now. What do you want?"

" _Nothing_ , Malfoy. Just…"

Malfoy raised his eyebrows.

Harry shook his head, exasperated, "I just want to know that you're alright. Okay? I can't help but feel like…"

"Like _what_?"

Harry turned back to the cauldron to add more drops. When he didn't turn back around, Malfoy clamped a hand around his upper arm and pulled him around to face him.

" _Like what_ , Potter?"

Malfoy saw something shift in Harry's expression, a subtle glint to his eyes and a set to his mouth.

"Like it's my fault, Malfoy!" Harry hissed, "Like I'm responsible, like it's just sixth year all over again and you're bleeding out on the bathroom floor because I used a curse when I didn't know what it would do!"

Malfoy let go of Harry's arm.

"So I just… I just want to know that you're okay. Doesn't even really matter. You can forget I said anything now, yeah?"

Harry turned around yet again. He could hear Malfoy's breathing, could hear him swallow. He figured he could picture his face right about now; torn between laughter and anger. He realized as soon as Malfoy spoke that he was wrong.

"You…" Malfoy's voice was shaky, unsure, "You didn't know? You didn't know what the curse would do?"

Harry took a breath and shook his head, "I found it written in the margins of an old book. It just said 'For your enemies'. I don't know what I thought it would do, but it certainly wasn't _that_."

"Snape knew a countercurse."

"It was Snape's book."

"Snape's?"

"From when he was in school. It was in that cabinet over there," Harry waved his hand vaguely toward the back of the room, "He used it on my father - the curse, I mean. I saw when I accidentally used Legilimency on him. Didn't know it was the same curse, though. He did it silently. And I didn't even have the book at the time. But Lupin said last year that it was Snape's 'specialty'."

Malfoy’s eyebrows creased in thought. He reached up and ran his fingers unconsciously over the scar on his cheek.

"I, erm…" Harry cleared his throat, "I never apologized for that. But I _am_ sorry. I didn't mean to."

"Thanks, I guess. Good to know you weren't actually trying to kill me."

They shared an awkward sort of smile for a moment, but that moment quickly ended when Malfoy yelled, "Potter! The potion!" 

Harry turned to see that the potion had turned an alarming shade of yellow and was creeping its way over the sides of their cauldron. He frantically added more troll's blood, which helped to pull the potion back into the cauldron and dampen the color, but it was obvious that damage had been done.

Malfoy pushed Harry out of the way and began tampering, crushing extra ingredients and stirring them in an effort to salvage their potion, muttering under his breath.

Eventually, the potion settled into a deep sunset color - a few shades more orange than it should have been, but closer than Harry could've gotten it. 

"Fucking Potter. You just had to get distracted, didn't you? What did I say about ruining my marks?"

"Oh, shove off, Malfoy. You were just as distracted as I was."

"Yeah? And whose fault might that be?"

The two glared at each other in silence, stubborn natures warring for several moments longer than was really acceptable. Finally, Harry sighed and looked down at his hands.

He muttered something that could've been 'I'm sorry' if you happened to have super-hearing, and conceded all control to Malfoy, quietly following directions until the end of the period.

When Slughorn came around to check on their potion, he gave a non-committal hum and said, "Well it's fine… well-made, would work fairly well. But not really what I would normally expect from the two of you. Something go wrong?"

Malfoy’s gaze shifted coldly in Harry’s direction, “ _Someone_ got distracted and added troll’s blood 20 seconds late.”

“I said I’m sorry, didn’t I?”

Slughorn chuckled, “Well if that’s the case, dear boy, I wouldn’t worry. Anyone who can salvage that can be considered an expert in my opinion. Outstanding," Slughorn made a mark in his book and wandered across the aisle to their neighbor's cauldron.

"There. No harm to your grades."

Malfoy huffed and nodded.

They packed up and left the dungeons in silence.

* * *

"Have you seen Ginny?" Luna plopped down at the Gryffindor table and set a pile of _Quibblers_ in front of her. 

"Not since this morning," said Hermione, reaching across to take a magazine from the pile, "Passed her on the way to charms. She's always late to lunch though."

"What's she done this time?" Ron asked around a mouthful of bread.

"Nothing. Why should she have done something?"

Harry reached across Ron to take a copy of _The Quibbler_ and began flipping through it, "So, why are you looking for her?"

"Oh, no reason, really. I just enjoy her company. I'll check the hall by the Hufflepuff dorms, I think."

"Why the Hufflepuff dorms?"

"Oh, she's been helping some of the students with various things. You know, to do with the war. Says it helps her forget about her own problems. I join in when I can."

A few glances were shared across the table, a silent, _I didn't know. Did you? Not a clue._

"You know, one of the younger girls had the most brilliant of ideas," Luna continued, "For the people who want to hurt themselves."

Luna paused and began straightening her stack of magazines.

Harry spoke up, "So, erm… what was the idea, Luna?"

"Hmm?" Luna looked up, "Oh. Yes. Well, she said that whenever someone feels like hurting themselves, they should paint their arms instead. I don't know why, but people have been saying it works. I'm happy for them. Anyway," she said, pushing away from the table, "I'm going to look for Ginny. Last call for _Quibblers_ , everyone!"

"Mmm," Dean waved his hand and mumbled a 'Thank you' once he had swallowed his food and Luna placed a magazine in front of him.

"Bye! We'll pay you at the end of the month, yeah?" Hermione asked.

Luna nodded and waved as she made her way out of the hall.

"Did you know Ginny was doing that?" Ron asked.

They all shook their heads.

"Oh, come on, none of you? Are any of you actually her friends?"

"Hey, she's _your_ sister," Seamus replied aiming his fork pointedly at Ron's face.

"Exactly. My job is to either ignore her or tease her. Not keep track of her extracurriculars."

" _Ron_ ," Hermione cuffed him disapprovingly on the back of the head.

"Well, you know, I should be asking the questions. Why's Harry so interested in what my sister's doing?"

"She _is_ his ex, Ron."

"Emphasis on _ex_."

"Oh, just shut up guys. I'm not interested because it's Ginny, I'm interested because I want to know how to help people, you know, if they need it."

"Well, you know what'll help me," Ron said, "If someone would help me with my Defense essay."

"Nice try," Harry and Hermione spoke in unison.

"How long have I been telling you, Ronald, I'll help you edit your papers, not write them."

"And you know, Ron, just because I can do the practical part of DADA doesn't mean I can write essays."

Ron whined some more, but didn't get anywhere and eventually gave up. 

Harry had zoned out, interested in an article about Thestrals in _The Quibbler_ , when he felt Seamus kick him under the table.

"What?"

"Malfoy's staring at you again."

Dean looked up and leaned forward, "Think he's got a crush?"

"Shut up, Thomas."

Dean chuckled, "It'd be like Romeo and Juliet. Star-crossed lovers. A death-eater and the Chosen One."

"Except they both die in the end."

"Alright, so then _not_ Romeo and Juliet."

"Shut up, you guys. He's angry with me because I messed up our potion yesterday."

Hermione looked across the hall at Malfoy, "I don't know, he seems more… confused than angry."

"And I care about this why?"

"I dunno, mate," Seamus tossed a chip in Harry's direction, "You just said 'shut up' like three times in as many minutes. Makes me think you care a bit."

"Would you stop projecting, Finnigan? Some of us actually need to finish eating and do this thing called _being productive_."

Seamus glared in Hermione's direction.

"What do you mean projecting?" Dean asked.

Hermione shook her head, "Nothing. I'm heading to the library. Anyone care to come?"

There was a moment of silence before Seamus spoke up and said he would.

"Really, Seamus? You're going to the library now?" Dean was looking more confused by the second.

"I, um, need some extra help with my charms assignment. See you later."

Seamus got up and followed Hermione away from the table, leaning over to talk furiously into her ear.

"What's up with him?" Ron said incredulously.

"Not a clue."

"Hmm."

"Mate, the ferret's still staring."

"Oh, for fuck's sake," Harry turned fully around in his seat and made direct eye contact with Malfoy.

 _What?_ He mouthed.

Malfoy looked away, startled, and focused his eyes on his plate.

"Merlin, what could he want?"

"Well, you know my theory."

"Shove off, Thomas."

"'Methinks the lady doth protest too much.'"

"You know what, I think you're right."

"Alright, I'm gonna go and find Neville. You two let me know when you're ready to be mature again."

Dean and Ron burst out laughing as Harry walked away.

"What makes you think I've ever been mature, mate!?"

Harry flipped them off over his shoulder.

* * *

Had he really wanted to find Neville, he was almost certain he would be found in either the library or the greenhouses, but Harry didn't feel particularly like leaving the castle for the greenhouses, nor was he really interested in getting involved with whatever had made Seamus so determined to follow Hermione.

He instead began wandering the halls aimlessly, trying to see them as they were, rather than the way they had looked filled with death eaters and blood. He almost regretted leaving the Great Hall; it was harder not to think about these things when he was alone. But overall he knew that his memories of the war weren't something he should push down or ignore. Even without the overwhelming amount of people telling him so, he knew that no matter how much he wanted to, letting his feelings fester instead of dealing with them would only make things worse in the long run. He would have to be alone sometimes, so he would have to be able to handle it.  
Recently Harry had been trying harder to understand his own emotions, which proved to be a lot more difficult than he expected. It was extremely important to be brutally honest with yourself, which could end up hurting a lot. 

One thing he'd noticed was this; sometimes when others talked about the battle, about what they'd gone through, Harry started to get angry or annoyed. When he'd finally realized why, he didn't want to admit it. He didn't want to be honest with himself about it. The truth was that he was upset with them for acting as if what they'd experienced was the worst thing anyone could fathom. Logically, he knew this anger was ridiculous, that everyone's experiences had been horrible and traumatizing and valid. But something somewhere in his subconscious was annoyed at their ignorance. It felt that Harry had experienced so much worse for far longer, that he had lost much more and had to deal with much more; that he'd witnessed more, that he'd taken part in more than anyone else had. Who else was tasked with the impossible act of killing the unkillable Voldemort? No one. Illogical as it was, Harry finally had to admit to himself that there was a part of him that felt like everyone else's trauma was small and stupid compared to his own.

It made him want to hit his head against the wall until that nonsensical, angry part of him was knocked loose. It made him feel alone and set apart from the others, like there was no one who could share in his trauma.

Harry was just passing the stairwell that would lead down toward the kitchens when Luna's voice rang in his ears.

_"She's been helping some of the students with various things. You know, to do with the war."_

"Hufflepuff dorms…" Harry muttered to himself. 

Perhaps Ginny and her friends could help him, too. He figured it was better than wandering the castle alone, wishing he was different.

Harry turned and began to descend the stairs. He wasn't actually sure where the Hufflepuff dorms were or how people got into them, but he knew they were somewhere near the kitchens. That's where the Hufflepuffs always headed between classes and meals, anyway. 

Harry wandered the halls for several minutes with nothing to show for it. Soon he could hear the echoes of voices flooding the halls, signaling the end of lunch, and had turned to head back upstairs before he heard a scuffing noise behind him. He turned to see Ginny staring concernedly at him, her hand resting gently on a stack of barrels pushed against the wall.

"Oh, hi. I, erm… I was just… you know, nevermind. I'll just…" Harry gestured down the corridor, in the general direction of the stairs, and began to make his way toward them. He paused at the sound of Ginny's voice.

"It's alright, Harry. You look… well, to be honest, Harry, you look like hell. Did something happen?"

Harry cleared his throat and turned back around to face her, "Nothing really. Just thoughts, I guess. Luna said you might be down here, like, helping people, and I thought maybe… I dunno. Nevermind. I'm sure you've got enough people to help."

Ginny gave him a small smile, "Of course I would help you, Harry. Stop being so awkward about it. I do sort of need to get to class though. I'll be coming back here after dinner though. If you want to come with. Talking… it's good for you."

"Yeah," Harry nodded and smiled back, "Thanks Gin."

"Walk me to Flitwick's?"

"Sure."

As they made their way back to the classrooms, Harry and Ginny let the conversation move to less serious topics - mainly quidditch. They joked and laughed and bickered just like they used to. The relief that Harry felt at this was almost palpable. He remembered what his break up with Cho had been like and had been terrified that the same thing would happen with Ginny. Fortunately, though, they had almost immediately gone back to being friends, and their previous feelings for one another had become something of a distant dream.

Ginny disappeared into the Charms classroom with a wave, leaving Harry by himself to walk to Transfiguration.

Hermione was already in her seat, scribbling something intently into her notebook. She looked up as Harry sat down.

"Alright, Harry?"

"Yeah. Fine. Just… I'm better."

Hermione looked at him quizzically, "You seemed annoyed at lunch. Ron said you got angry with him and Dean."

"I'm okay, Hermione. I was just annoyed with Malfoy because he blamed me for messing up our potion. And then Dean and Ron wouldn't stop talking about him. That's all."

"Hmm."

Hermione went back to writing. Harry leaned over to see what she was so focused on, but she quickly covered it with her hand.

"Oh, come on 'Mione."

"Not my secret to share, Harry. Sorry."

Harry paused for a second. Then, "Does this secret happen to belong to… I don't know… a certain short Irish friend of ours?"

Hermione glared.

"Alright, nevermind, sorry. New topic."

Hermione closed her notebook, "Alright, new topic."

"What do you think of that thing Luna said? About painting your arm?"

Hermione's eyebrows creased in concern, "Why? You have been wanting to-"

"No, no, I've… not me. It's for… I'm just curious if it would help someone."

"Who?"

"Well, _that's_ not really _my_ secret to share."

"I see," she thought for a moment, "Well, I can certainly see why it would work. I think that it's one of those things that's different for everyone. It will work for a lot of people, but it's never guaranteed. They just have to try it and see."

Harry fiddled with his quill.

"Thanks."

"Yeah."

They let their conversation end as Professor McGonagall cleared her throat and began her lesson.


End file.
